It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. They did not spend most days together. Though nearly dark, there was still light enough left to enable him to discern surrounding objects. At last she glanced at a little clock in the corner of the room, and sprang to her feet. Ann Veronica sat back in an attitude of inattention, her eyes on a distant game of cricket, her mind perplexed and busy. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily.
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